Letting Go
by FurlessCat
Summary: (R for language and drugs) this is a what if story about Mark, and basically it takes place after the movie
1. Default Chapter

Yay, I'm back!! I couldn't log onto here for the longest time, so I had to make a new account, anyways, this is a what if after story  
  
I don't own any of the characters in this story except for Matthew  
  
No. He tipped his head back to swallow the vomit that had creeped up his throat. No. he wouldn't do it again. He leaned forward on the bare floor, his knees drawn up to his chin. No. he closed his eyes against the brightness of the room. He had to keep hold of himself. He placed two grubby hands on each side of his head, as if to hold his mind. He could keep control of his body, it was his body. He took a deep breath and felt the pain start to decrease. Just as he let a small, tight smile break free, the pain came back full force. A burning steel blade plunged deep into his gut, boiling his insides.   
He stood up wobbily and the pain traveled throughout his body.  
"Aaaaa" he let out a breath and fell to his hands and knees. One hand slid around his stomach. He squeezed his eyes shut so tight he thought they may never open again.   
But they did, just enough to reveal the concrete floor and lead him to freedom. He started to lurch across the barren apartment to a blanket near the corner. There was no controlling it, he had to do it. This thought bubbled up through the swamp of his mind.  
"No!" he yelled out in pain and defeat. But he knew this was the way it had to be. He didn't protest as his body scraped and scuffed closer to the corner. Whimpers formed deep in his throat and came out high pitched but disheartened. Sweat trickled through his skinhead cut and mingled with his tears to burn his eyes. His teeth were bared against the blinding heat in his stomach.   
His lanky, thin body finally hit against the wall beside the blanket and slumped down to the floor. He took in a shuddering breath then began to fumble with the instruments and chemicals on the worn blanket. He could almost do it with his eyes closed, almost.   
When the syringe was ready he pulled off his belt. Holding back the urge to throw up, he tightened the belt around his upper arm. Then he feebly slapped the veins into appearance around his elbow joint. He didn't even feel the needle go in, but he knew it had worked.   
He began to float away, his mind separated from his prison of a body and a sickly grin plastered to his face. 


	2. vomit tastes worse back down

Next chapter:)  
  
  
  
"He's done it again." The voice was distant and a bit muffled.  
  
"You think I can't see that? Bloody hell."   
  
Suddenly his nice, peaceful slumber was interrupted.  
  
"Mark? Mark wake up" somewhere he could feel the heat of slaps on his face and his body being moved. He wasn't going to go back. Not now, when he was so close to what he longed for. If he went back now he would do it again, and that was unacceptable.  
  
"Mark?...Mark!" something snapped and he realized after being submerged into a world of milky colors and wavy lines that it had been his eyes. He shifted his eyes back and forth, trying to make the colors stop running together. A hand was held up in front of his face to help his eyes focus. Slowly, his vision became clear. But still he shifted his eyes from face to face.  
  
Who was this man who had bleached white hair and dark eyes? He knew him from somewhere, but couldn't quite place it. And who was the red headed guy next to him?   
  
As if the energy put into hi eyes muddled all his other senses, he couldn't hear them now. Not clearly anyway. They looked like they were shouting. The veins were standing up on the bleached guy's neck. Five minutes went by until a little pinprick of understanding came to him. Now he could understand most of what they said.  
  
"Mark! Can you hear me?! Holy shit." The red head's voice was cracking. Apparently they were friends.   
  
Friends shouldn't cry over other friends, should they? No, not if whatever happened was supposed to happen. He should be the one crying. They brought him back, damn them. He slid his leathery tongue around his dry mouth to try and part his lips. A force too strong was keeping his voice from his, so he whispered  
  
"Damn you"  
  
The two men stopped and he continued to say his curse, until he was sure he would slip back to that place.  
  
"DAMN YOU!" it came out as a whistled scream. He had broken the barrier and was now back to full reality. These two guys were his best friends. And his body felt like a giant bruise because he had shot up again.   
  
Tears broke free of his clenched eyes and he rolled into a ball. Someone touched his back and he snapped at them  
  
"Get the fuck away from me you bastards!" his voice still wasn't his, it came out high pitched like a young boys.   
  
"Fine Mark, but your lucky this time, I hope you know. You would have choked on your own vomit if we hadn't showed up." Mark lifted his fingers to them and turned back to the corner of the couch.  
  
Later he heard someone leave. Maybe both of them, he didn't care. He slipped into dreams of true freedom, not the kind heroin gave him. 


	3. Did you forget your pullup?

Next chappy:)  
  
  
Burning. His flesh was burning. Or at least, that what it felt like. The itching started at his belly button and spread unevenly to his knees. A sob crawled up his throat with the taste of puke on it.   
  
Slowly, Mark opened his eyes, but it was quite difficult with the crusted corners. He blinked a few times before he remembered he was on the couch. A stinging smell flowed through his nose, prickling the inside with it's sourness. He couldn't place it, even though he knew he encountered it almost everyday.   
  
Deciding to find out what it was, he pulled his stiff body apart. First, his arms, which creaked and croaked with every bend. Next, his head. But the sharp pain that sped down his spine when attempted to turn his neck convinced him to move on to something else. So he set about to pulling his legs out. But just as they unwantingly unfolded, he felt a chill hit him full force.   
  
What? He brought a curled hand to his crotch and felt damp cloth. The realization that he had pissed himself hit full force, choking him up with tears. This was too much. Grown men didn't wet themselves.   
  
Instead of cleaning himself up, he curled back into the corner. Sleep was better than this. Dreams had become more realistic than the world he was in now. He whimpered like a small child until sleep swallowed him whole.  
  
  
  
Reviews please:)they're very welcome to this writer:) 


	4. screaming pantswhat are we coming to?

Sigh still have two chapters to type, but it's worth it  
  
  
  
The sour stench of his urine broke through the shroud of sleep to bring Mark back to full awareness. An uncontrollable twitch traveled through his leg and up his neck. He bit his tongue with it and tasted blood. This was something new, he never lost control of his body, besides the occasional vomiting and more recent affects of a weak bladder.  
  
Slowly he sat up, desperately trying to hold back from clawing at his skin where the urine had dried. He gritted his teeth against the itching and rubbed his head as he leaned forward to stand up. Vertigo shook him for a few seconds but he regained his balance.  
  
He looked down at himself. Yellow tipped the edge of his cheap white shirt and ran up across his stomach, while his pants were stiff enough to bread in half. He began to trudge across the bare floor to the kitchen where pasty white walls stared at him bleakly. He made his way to a pile of clothes in the corner by pushing a lawn chair aside. He reached he bent down to pick up a thread-bare yellow shirt. He stood back up and brought the shirt to his nose, hoping laundry day had been only a few days ago, but not remembering. Quick reflexes forced him to gag and hold the shirt arms length away. He scrunched his face and turned away from the clothes to gasp in fresh air. Apparently laundry day had been a few weeks ago.  
  
Reluctantly, he turned back around and placed the shirt in a crumble onto the folding poker table beside him. He pulled his shirt off, lifting his arms high above his head. The stretching and shifting made a rumbling start in his stomach and he quickly had to bend over to swallow down the puke that had rushed up his sore throat. Taking a few deep breaths, he steadied himself, and grabbed the shirt off the table, still bent over. He slid it over his head while holding his breath and stood straight again.   
  
How had life come to this? Mark's face twisted into a mixture of pain and anger. He squeezed his eyes tight to ward off the steaming tears he felt forming.  
  
He watched his fingers as they fumbled to undo his pants. The denim clung to his legs and left a gritty feeling on his skin as he pulled them off. Not thinking, he tossed them to the side, where they slid down the wall silently. But to his jacked up mind, the grainy pants had screeched slowly down the drywall and laughed at his losses. He clasped his grubby hands to his ears and screamed with his eyes closed.  
  
"NOOO!" the high pitch of his voice only made him more pitiable. He stood still, not moving for two minutes straight before opening his eyes back up and glancing around the room. After surveying the scene he went back to his search for some pants.   
  
Unconsciously he wiped the tears off his face and sniffed his nose. He had just pulled on a drier pair of pants on that, instead of smelling like urine smelling like mold, when his flat mate walked in.   
  
Matthew had found Mark half-doped up in an alley about four months ago. Mark's loss of his close girlfriend had devastated him and he had ventured back into his old habit of heroin. Matthew, also hooked the drug, but not so carelessly, had taken Mark home to his flat, in an attempt to save him. So far the only improvement in Mark had been that he actually talked now. He had been totally silent for the first month of living with Matthew. And only after Matthew had sought out Mark's friends, had he been able to open his mouth. Of course the first words Mark ever uttered to him were curses.  
  
But now Matthew walked into the kitchen to see him roommate doing up his pants.  
  
"Hey Mark."   
  
"Hey" Mark mumbled, then grabbed his jacket off the back of another lawn chair. Matthew went to put Mark's discarded jeans onto the dirty clothes, and noticed a poigent smell of urine in the air. After grabbing the stiff pants, he realized where the smell was coming from. He turned to Mark  
  
"Hey, what happened?" by this time Mark was at the door  
  
"I'm going to the store." Was his reply as he slammed the door behind him. Matthew shook his head, Mark's addiction was getting more out of control. Something was going to have to be done soon, before he went too far over the edge.  
  
  
  
Ok I hope this chapter isn't too confusing, but if you have questions, just ask:) 


	5. pimples pop by the dozen

Ok last chapter for now, because this is the last of what I have written so far.. please review  
  
  
"That will be six dollars." Mark stared blankly at the pimply teen behind the gas station check out counter.   
  
"Uh, mister, I said six dollars." Mark jerked back and looked at the counter where a beer and sandwich sat.  
  
"Oh, yeah." He shoved a hand into his pocket and pulled out a crumble of wrinkled dollars. He placed the wad of cash on the glass counter and looked up at the teen a little helplessly. The young man took the money, realizing that he was waiting on a person that ' wasn't all there'.   
  
"ok, thank you sir. Have a nice evening." Mark didn't say anything, but grabbed his food. He left the gas station quickly and gave anyone who looked at him a death glare. Outside, the sky was gray with the oncoming dusk. Mark hunched his shoulders and held his head down as he headed across the street.  
  
He didn't know where he was going. It didn't matter. All he had to do was wait until morning to go buy more drugs. The guy he bought from was never home at night. So he continued down through an alley.   
  
In his blind walking he tripped on an old boot which launched him off the ground. He flew through the air, arms spread wide. His food forgotten on the wind and his shoelaces floating in the moment. He watched the ground apprehensively as he neared it. The everything went black as his cheek slid roughly across the pavement.   
  
Mark lay, at seven in the evening, in the middle of an alley, with no one knowing where he was.  
  
  
Ok that's it for awhile, please leave nice reviews, and advice if you feel like it:) 


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